Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian (4 page)

Fabian listened, unsurprised by her words. He had honoured men who refused to compromise their honour and submit to him. Honoured, then executed them.

“And you are what? The reed that bends in the wind?”

“Damned right I am,” Tig ground out. “I did what they wouldn’t to save the rest of my family. When Carson made a successful challenge, I offered myself, and luckily he took me as his tenth wife. I gave myself to him and did everything he desired because it was the only way to survive.”

“You gave in. In my world we would call that a weakness.”

“I gave what was mine to give. Big difference. I…”

Fabian smelled the salt of her tears but already knew she was far too proud to let them fall. She had no-one to wipe them away for her so she would sniff them back, straighten her spine and continue to move forward and live her life.

“In my world, it is customary to give a gift when entering the house of a friend,” he said by way of distraction. “May I assume friendship with you?”

He heard Tig sniff. Again, she gave an indifferent shrug. “You can assume what you like.”

“Good. Then I wish to offer you a gift.”

“A gift?”

Fabian caught the glint of hope in her voice. The way she leaned forward in anticipation. Had he been home, he would have showered her with gold for saving his life. Now, all he had to offer was this.

“I will admit that my arm pains me. You may set it and splint it for me, at your leisure.”

Again, another bark of disbelieving laughter. Wisely, Tig clamped a hand over her mouth to stop the sound. She took a deep breath and composed herself before speaking.

“Thank you, my lord. You do me a great honour.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgement, hearing the mockery, but showing that he too could bend with the wind. Adapting to this temporary new home would be difficult, but he would do whatever it took to get him back to Anxur. If that meant letting this woman know he felt pain, then so be it.

The old leather chair embraced him. He was drifting when Tig placed a mug of something hot and savoury into his hand. A blanket, softer than Cafino’s, settled over his legs.

“Don’t spill it,” she whispered. “Or drink too quickly.” Her hand wrapped around his to steady the cup and help lift it carefully to his mouth. “Something ate the goat. Desert wolf probably. Storm blew the store-room door wide open. This will dull the pain and help you sleep. I’ll set your arm while you’re out.”

Drugged?
The room tipped and started a slow spin. Fabian struggled against the effect of the sleeping draught, to no avail. Time, the room, Tig, slid away to be replaced by the sensation of waves lapping gently at the shore. Feeling safer than he had in a thousand years, he spread himself out and let them take him.

* * * *

With him here, neither of them was safe.

Send for a runner
, her better judgement nagged.
Have him collected and pocket the fee. What good will come of this?

A find like Fabian belonged to the local warlord.

Damn them. Damn them all
. She found him. His fate was hers to decide.

“You’re going home,” she told the sleeping figure. “Wherever that is. And if it involves a big reward for me, then so much the better.”

Fabian tolerated the setting and splinting with barely a whimper. Stoical, even in sleep. “Where else are you hurting?” she murmured. A man this proud would rather die than admit a weakness. If he had internal injuries, she could only wait for him to die and then bury him deep, where no wild beast or man could find him. She didn’t want him to die.

She found a pot of antiseptic salve to rub into the cuts littering his skin. Too many scars, old and new, for him to be anything but a warrior or a member of one of the war-gangs. Carefully, Tig eased down the blanket to smooth the soothing lotion into the diagonal cut that ran from his waist to his belly-button and then she bound the hole made by the crossbow bolt. She worked diligently, trying in vain to detach from the memory of the crisp dark hair circling his magnificent cock. Her husband had been well-endowed, but Fabian, oh my. She worked in the salve, determined not to stare at the bulge tenting the blanket. A perfectly natural thing. Nothing to get so hot and bothered about. Sex was vastly overrated, anyway.

Oh Tig
, she scolded herself.
He’ll be gone as soon as he’s healed. Don’t get involved. Don’t get attached.

She measured his beautiful shoulders with her hands, curving her fingers around the smooth, hard muscle, sweeping down to the planes of his chest. His short hair was dark, like his eyes and in repose he’d lost the frown marks marring his forehead. She traced the line of his nose, feeling the slight bump that might have been an old break. Touched the scar where a blade had sliced his cheek. He needed a shave, and a bath. She sniffed, surreptitiously, finding the stench of sweat and man strangely arousing. Fabian muttered and shifted to his side. The blanket slipped. Tig quickly replaced it.

Man, was Anxur-Jopra ugly
. She laid her forearm against Fabian’s comparing the marks. At least it wasn’t Crolos. Then she would have had to shoot him on sight. You couldn’t afford to be sentimental about these things. Not if you wanted to live.

Let him sleep. Something told her he’d earned a few hours of peace. He was like a fish tossed from the sea by a rogue wave. Completely at odds with his environment. A man uttering a silent scream only she could hear.

She left Fabian the lamp, using up precious supplies because no one should wake up in the dark in a strange place. Outside, she heard the long, lonely howl of a desert wolf. No answer tonight. Probably an outcast like her. She’d cried too long into the night for someone special to help shoulder the burdens of this life. She pitied the animal and then she envied it. For the wolf, hope was a well that never ran dry.

Sleep was impossible. She fought the urge to keep checking on the very unexpected man asleep in her armchair. As a distraction, she climbed to the attic and brought down the rifle. Cleaning it gave her something to do with her hands. Something not nearly as interesting as touching Fabian, but the gentle back and forth of the oily rag, and the memory of her father and brothers doing the same calmed her a little and gave her space to think and plan.

The craziest of thoughts took root as she worked.

When he leaves, go with him. Start that new life you’ve always dreamed of.

Then she caught sight of herself in the folding mirror on her dresser. Candlelight threw shadows into the gaunt hollows of her cheeks. Tangled hair, pale and listless, curtained her face. Her brother’s old work-shirt hung from bony shoulders. Cuffs pulled back over wrists too thin to be hers - surely? A man like Fabian would not want to be seen with this sad-looking creature.

Methodically, she reassembled the gun. Sighted down the barrel. Fabian had a life to live, and so did she. And hers didn’t involve waiting for a man to show her the way.

* * * *

He felt the loss of the bracelets like a ghost limb after amputation. Tight bands tugged at his upper arms, and yet, when he looked, Fabian saw only the pale marks where the sun had not bronzed him.

How great was the fall of the mighty. Instead of silks and leather, he had only his own skin. No war-horse of the purest breed. Crude pottery instead of silver and gold. A smelly lamp with its mean light, instead of candles that blazed with the light of a thousand suns. The wagons carrying plunder had stretched as far as the eye could see.

“You’re alive, Fabian.” Tig stopped battering the lump of dough into submission and wiped floury hands on her pants. “You should be singing, not frowning.”

Fabian unfolded himself from the chair, tugging the blanket around him to spare Tig’s delicate sensibilities. How could a poor little creature like her, be so wise? And so familiar, too. Did she not know who he was? He shook his head. Of course she didn’t.

“I have nothing to sing about. When can you organise a mage for me?”

“Look around, Fabian. Do I look as if I can afford the services of a mage?”

Unfortunately, she spoke the truth. His first glance had warned him she was not a woman of means.

“You must have something you can sell.”

“Whoa. Hold it just there. Give me one good reason why I should put myself out for you?”

“More riches than you could ever imagine,” he replied, gazing absently out of the window at the flag-stoned yard and meadows beyond. “Help me return to my own world, and you will be well rewarded.”

“Well,” she said, dropping the dough into a warmed bowl. “Now you’re talking. What’s all this about your world? You’re from the Bartain province in the north, right? I’ve heard they keep their hair short, like yours. Or was it stolen?”

What should he tell her? It sounded fantastic even to his own ears.
I fell for a thousand years down a pit that cycled through dimensions and time. This is where I landed.

“Not exactly. But I do need to return home. Where will I find a mage?”

“They’re all operating underground now or controlled by one gang or another. How’s the arm?”

“It will mend.” The words almost came out as a question. Past battle wounds had healed with him barely noticing. How mortals healed, he had no idea.

“Only a mage can get me home.”

“Are you going to tell me why?”

“A primitive such as you would not comprehend.”

“Hey!” A splat of soft dough hit him on the cheek.

“Primitive is a relative thing. Just because I don’t have much, it doesn’t mean I’m lacking in the brain-cells’ department.”

“I never said you lacked intelligence. Merely that you lived like a primitive. I need clothing. I do not think a horse blanket is proper attire for the…” he stopped himself. What would he do if the leader of a powerful clan suddenly turned up at his doorstep, bewildered and injured and declaring his identity to all? “I do not think a horse blanket is proper attire. Show me what you have. I need to make my way to the nearest settlement.”

“Okay. Okay. Hold the horses.”

“Do I look like the kind of man who would bother himself holding horses?” As with most females, Tig talked mostly gibberish. Fabian turned back to the window to regroup. This was a game they must play on her terms, for now. He murmured a short prayer of thanks that this woman had found him, rather than the marauding war-bands of which she had spoken.

“Who are you, Fabian? Where did you come from?” He felt her hand, gentle on his shoulder. Her warm breath against his back. Her boldness, the way she approached and addressed him, without prior leave, was oddly exciting. But it also made him feel vulnerable.

“A war-lord,” he said at length. Best couch it in terms she would understand. Not too far from the truth. “Taken as hostage. After a long and noble struggle,” he added.

“Of course,” Tig murmured in words that lacked her usual sarcasm. Her hand was warm on his flesh. He tensed to stop himself leaning into its comforting embrace.

“Naturally, I escaped. Killing most of my captors. And then you found me. They put a forgetfulness spell on me. I need a mage to help me remember where home is.”

Soft lips touched his shoulder blade. Or did he imagine that?

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Tig said. “The strongest of men will find themselves wrong-footed at some time in their lives. I can’t promise you a mage. But I will do all I can to help you to return home.”

“That pleases me.” He turned to her and fingered a lock of fair, greasy hair. “You would be quite passable if you took more care of yourself. Beautiful, even. Do you not wish to be attractive to men?”

“A compliment?” Tig arched her brows and deftly flicked the hair from his fingers. “Where I come from, attractive women are raped and taken as plunder. Or raped and held for ransom. Do you understand?”

“Only too well. But I should like to see you cleaned up.”

“Why should I want to attract attention to myself? Didn’t you hear what I just said? If you want clothes, they’re upstairs. My father was a big man. His clothes should fit you.”

He waved a hand. “Bring them to me.”

“Fetch them yourself.” Resolutely, Tig picked up the bowl of dough and crossed to the range. With a sharp crack, she placed it on the metal stove and then busied herself organising tins and boxes on the adjoining shelves. After a short wait, he decided to dress himself. At the door leading to the steep, winding staircase, he hesitated.

“I should like to wash first. Where is the bathing-room?”

“Stone building next to the house,” Tig said without stopping her furious rearranging. “If you want hot water, there’s a copper boiler. When the water’s hot enough, open the valve to fill the tub. Bucket’s under the sink if you want to fill it faster.”

All spoken without turning around. Fabian wondered what he’d said to upset her.

“I will give you the honour of bathing me,” he offered. “I have obviously offended you in some way. Women have fought to the death for such an honour in the past.”

Her shoulders were shaking. Laughter, or tears? He couldn’t tell. Fabian only knew that he’d touched some open wound and caused pain. An uncomfortable feeling, given Tig’s kindness.

“I will do you the even greater honour of bathing you,” he said, offering the most he had to give at that moment.

“Don’t humble yourself,” Tig snapped back. “Wash if you want to. I have bread to make.”

In the give and take of this odd new life, it was his turn to offer comfort. When he thought of all he’d left behind him, he almost wanted to weep, too. Instead of this peasant clad in rags, he could have adorned her like a queen. Had her ride in the finest of carriages. In his world she would have been a reflection of himself. In her world, he thought ruefully, he was a reflection of her. A poor one, too.

“You may be dirty and lack means, but you have generosity and grace. Where I come from, that is a very precious commodity. Tig. If I offended you, I beg your pardon.”

She’d been crying, although she would never admit it. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m a mess. But Fabian. What do I have to get dressed up for, huh?”